The Fear of Ageing
“What remains before the mirror is a woman one day older than yesterday.”
Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex
I was twelve when the impact of getting older hit me like a punch in the gut. I was in the backseat of my mother’s car driving home from our annual beachside holiday. Watching the late-August sun filter through the window, I was seized by the overwhelming thought that the last true summer of childhood was over. There would be no more playing make-believe and chasing other kids on the sand. The innocence, wildness and freedom of those days had disappeared as quickly as the summer. Time had sneaked up on me and I wasn’t ready to let go. I sobbed my heart out while my bewildered mother tried to comfort me.
My mother was only 35 then, a full fifteen years younger than I am now. She had had all her children, was full of energy and was still far from menopause. I had my first child at 35 and my second at 40, am entering menopause and will probably be in the throes of it when my daughter gets her first period. This is normal among many women my age. We are busier than our mothers may have been, navigating lives with far more noise and stimulus in them. We also have the possibility of living well into old age but many of us are terrified of it. After all, each year brings us closer to the grave and youth becomes a distant memory.
Ageing is crossing a threshold into another land where life goes on but it is forever altered. It was Franklin D. Roosevelt who said we have “nothing to fear but fear itself”. At 25 I worried over being a quarter of a century old, at 30 I cried over my frown lines and lack of success. I spent my late 30s in paroxysms of anxiety about turning 40. And don’t get me started on turning 50. All of a sudden, I was a middle-aged woman over halfway through her life, wondering how she got here. Like a wilting, crumbled version of my twelve-year-old self, I was clinging on to the past. My 50th was an anticlimax - no big party and no fanfare as we were in week one of lockdown. In some ways I was grateful for that. It was a relief to get it out of the way.
Ageing is predominantly physical. It is this decline that shatters the illusion of mortality we have when we are young. We first witness it in our parents, in stooped shoulders, shorter spines and greying hair. It makes us feel both afraid and tender. We sense death coming for the people we love. My father died of cancer two years ago when he was in his early 70s. Even as he wasted away on his hospital bed, my head was filled with memories of him as a younger man - carrying me, lifting me on his shoulders, protecting me.
How do we come to accept our bodies getting older and the loss of vibrancy? It often seems to me that I am younger than I am. Then I catch a glimpse of myself and see the lines, the shifting shape, glasses perched on my head. My body has developed strange aches. I need to work harder to maintain fitness and energy levels. Sleep is a problem. Anxiety about sleeping is a problem. Boozy nights out become breakfast meetings or morning hikes where I discuss moles, skintags and sore backs with friends. There is a lot of fear. Some of us are in denial. As the merciless Simone de Beauvoir puts it:
“..she fights; but dyes, peeling and plastic surgery can never do more than prolong her dying youth.”
Recently, at a lunch with friends, the discussion centred on an acquaintance who was considered to have let herself age badly. Her hair was grey, she wore no makeup, she dressed plainly. Nothing was mentioned about her as a person, as a human being. She was reduced to how she had aged. “She used to be so pretty,” they said, as if she had failed at something. I left the lunch depressed, wondering why we still judge each other on how we look even as we get older. And why do we talk about ageing ‘badly’? It’s just ageing. We are bombarded with images of older women - celebrities, actresses and influencers - who look incredible with smooth skin, thick hair and athletic bodies. People our age who defy age. Sometimes it feels as if everyone is getting something done: teeth fixed, breasts raised, eyebags removed. The list is endless.
Perhaps it makes us feel better about navigating this image-conscious world. In my late 30s I got botox and fillers to maintain what I saw as fading looks. I looked great, an enhanced version of myself. I enjoyed the compliments and the attention. But I needed more and more to maintain the effect. When one part of the face looks better, the rest is thrown into relief like a tatty rug in a freshly painted room. I spent a lot of time studying my face for flaws. It became obsessive, expensive and time consuming.
I don’t do any of that stuff anymore. Perhaps I will again in the future but I am less preoccupied with looking younger these days. I take care of my health. I dye my hair. I use retin-A because it has amazing effects on the skin and I love bright, glowing skin. I also take HRT which helps with skin, bones and mood as well as a range of other benefits. I eat well, I run and do yoga. I get blood tests every year. If money was no object I would probably get botox, an eye lift maybe for my bags. But I am not as frightened of physical ageing as I used to be. My focus switched over the past decade to caring for my mental health and learning to live with the anxiety and depression that has brought both pain and self-awareness. I recently gave up alcohol, something I thought I’d never do as I love food and wine. But it was the wine or my head. Age forces us to make harsh choices. We slough off old habits in our quest to survive.
De Beauvoir writes of the woman becoming:
“Face to face with herself. Beyond this barrier she has unexpectedly struck, she has the feeling that she will do no more than survive; her body will be without promise; the dreams and desires she has not realised will for ever remain unaccomplished…”
I think this has less relevance today than in the past. Living longer means more time to study and change or start careers. We know so much more about taking care of our brains and bodies. Our expectations may change too. The opinions of others carry less weight. At least this is what I tell myself in the darker moments when I feel like I’ve failed and there is nothing else for me. The past few years have brought much pain but also shown me strength I didn’t know I had. My ego has softened, I have a deeper appreciation for humanity. The woman I was at thirty would not believe the woman I am at fifty. She would probably find her boring and insipid. Maybe she is. Then again, it matters less.
This isn’t wisdom. Far from it. Beware those who think that wisdom is automatically conferred with age. There are idiots in every age bracket. It’s adaptation, the ability of an organism to live well in its habitat. A large part of ageing is figuring out what is worth fighting for and what we must accept to thrive. Of course there are difficulties. The body will undergo adverse changes. We may have to let go of certain dreams and hopes. There’s a refreshing cynicism that comes with age, a sort of delightful cruel wit that laughs in the face of time.
Hermann Hesse said “the task of being old is as beautiful and sacred as being young.” I am learning to reframe age as less of an obstacle and more of a guide. There are a few things that have made a difference, some things I’d like to pass on to my younger self:
I don’t need as much money as I believed to be happy. I used to love expensive hotel breaks and gourmet meals. A recent wild camping trip with my daughter brought me more joy than any of these things.
Trying new and uncomfortable things is life-enhancing. I am swimming in the Irish sea all year round with a group. We scream and whoop together as we hit the icy waters. It terrifies me and I love it.
Exercise is probably more important at this stage than any other. Find something, anything you like to keep moving.
Never stop learning.
Or travelling. I can’t wait to spread my wings again in a (hopefully) post-Covid world. I joined a Facebook group of inspiring solo women travellers of all ages.
Tell the truth. So many of us pretend all the time. It’s exhausting.
Let people into your life. They may not be the friends you thought you’d have. But they may be the ones you need.
Written by Allyson Dowling
Allyson is a freelance writer and translator who lives by the sea with her family in Ireland. She is also a skincare and yoga fanatic, obsessive reader, sea swimmer and self-improvement junkie who may sometimes keep a box of chocolates hidden under her bed.